Why I’m cutting the cosy hygge aesthetic out of my social media diet

In our Unfollow column, we take a look at the rise of social media tropes and put a finger on why some of them haunt us, even after we close the app. Call us negative, but we’re positive that sometimes, the only thing you can do to keep sane in our age of over-stimulation is mute, hide, and unfollow.

The last lingering days of summer are behind us, the leaves are turning and the season of chunky knits, pumpkin soup and cosy evenings by the fire is upon us. So, queue the stream of ‘basic bitch’ Instagram posts of girls posing in apple orchards, captioned #HelloOctober (and bonus points if they’re sipping on a Starbucks’ Pumpkin Spice Latte). But while I might roll my eyes at these pictures, it’s the ones that fall under the ‘hygge’ hashtag that I find especially problematic. You know the kind I mean: cosy socks paired with suspiciously tanned legs in mid-November, curled up in front of a crackling fire with a stack of colour-coded vintage books against a disturbingly minimalist backdrop of Scandi interior design. Enough already. 

Catnip to social media users and plucked from Danish origins, hygge became an near-overnight sensation back in 2016 when a spate of books such as Meik Wiking’s The Little Book of Hygge: The Danish Way to Live Well soared to the top of bestseller lists (that year, the word ‘hygge’ was even hailed as runner-up as UK word of the year by the Collins English Dictionary—’hygge’ was narrowly pipped to the post by ‘Brexit’.) To clarify, it is not the origins of the word itself that I have an issue with. I think—to use the following definition of the term—“a quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being” is something we could all do with a little more of in our lives. What I find frustrating, however, is that this cosy, nostalgic feeling, which I personally associate with my childhood—stomping through mounds of brittle golden leaves and huddling round the fire on a Sunday afternoon with my family—has been commandeered by Instagram users who have turned this feeling into an aesthetic to buy into.

In an era defined by influencer culture designed to make us feel inadequate, you’d think that these fleeting moments of down time and intimacy with our loved ones would be a sure way to escape the virtual world. But as I scroll through relentless images of crimson bonfires, sheepskin rugs and weekends away in the Cotswolds, I’m left with the resounding feeling that my own moments of quiet just don’t quite make the cut. 

And there within lies the problem: what was originally meant to describe the cosiness of shared moments of intimacy has become a merchandising tool to sell cashmere cardigans, scented candles, wine, furniture, even yoga retreats. Cashing in on the Scandi zeitgeist, hygge has become the single most marketable lifestyle trend in publishing, with at least ten new books a year carrying titles primed for Google search engines such as Hygge: The Danish Art of Happiness or How to Hygge: The Nordic Secrets to a Happy Life. 

The astoundingly successful attempts to capitalise on “a cosiness of the soul” have all but destroyed the calm surge of warmth and safety that I typically associated with that feeling. The Danish consider hygge as effortless comfort, free of any element of performance—rightly so, as it is the most natural thing to want to huddle around a fire and wish the outside world away. We could all use a little more hygge in our lives, but it’s not something you can buy with a cashmere jumper or a €900 yoga retreat, and it’s certainly not something that you’ll find scrolling through Instagram. Therefore, with the intention of chaperoning the jaundiced eye that keeps watch of my social media pages, I’m unfollowing anyone promoting the trend, for now.